Saturday 9 December – Yeovil 2-0 Gills
Every now and then you come to a momentous decision and after considerable deliberation I’ve concluded that I’m never going to Yeovil again. Unless maybe the Gills need a point to clinch a Champions League place. Reasons that have aided my thinking include :
- It’s impossible to get to by public transport. The semi-fast line stops at Yeovil Junction, which is somewhere on Salisbury Plain. The grim and slow line stops at the more central Yeovil Pen Mill, a taxi-less tip from which you have to march across some grimy park and then catch a bus up the hill. It also involves a change of train at Castle Carey, embarkation point for Glastonbury festivals and boasting passenger facilities no more enticing than a burger van selling onion baps, having run out of cheese for the advertised “cheese and onion baps”
- It’s impossible to get home from. Unless you want to sit in gridlocked traffic while trying to exit the car park adjoining the soulless Huish Park, trying to get back to the distant town centre, from where you can catch a trundling eastward bound train. Which fails to connect with your carriage back to Paddington, so two hours after the final whistle you’re no further on than Trowbridge
- The romantic notion of cider inspired country pubs is eclipsed when you realise that the only hostelry within (long uphill) walking distance of the ground is The Bell. The beer’s ok, but last year they managed to serve me the only burger I’ve failed to eat in my entire life
- The club with arguably the richest history in non-league football are now pushing for promotion to The Championship. Yet the character of the old Huish, all sloping pitches and cup giant-killings, has been lost at the new venue. Maybe the hike out of town saps the spirit from everyone, but although a neat and functional ground, it’s desperately dull and lacks atmosphere. The locals and stewards are perfectly friendly but it’s hardly a saving grace
- It’s bloody cold
- The team has a habit of playing like arthritic tits
From the moment Leon Best ambled through a lamentably appealing Gills defence – what were those utter fuckwits thinking with their hands in the air, clutching helplessly at straws? – to walk in Yeovil’s opener, the game was up. Another lack lustre display against an ordinary side brought the usual consequences. We had the chances to get something out of the game, but the fact is we deserved nothing and another awayday ended all too predictably.
Easton hitting the post with a last minute freekick. The ball’s failure to cross the line denied The Binman the sweepstake winnings. Made us laugh, anyway….
The Morty Vicker